


At The Seams

by isis_astarte_diana



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alien Technology, Dry Humping, Episode: s09e02 The Witch's Familiar, F/F, Medical Kink, Medical Procedures, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:01:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28196580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isis_astarte_diana/pseuds/isis_astarte_diana
Summary: “Telepathic control,” she says, patience unruffled, and Clara thinks for a second that she would make an excellent teacher if she ever fancied a change from the murder and the mayhem, and then Missy is cocking her head and quirking her eyebrow and commanding without any undue roughness, “open wide,” and Clara is opening wide.In which Clara acquiesces and Missy can't resist.
Relationships: Missy/Clara Oswin Oswald
Comments: 12
Kudos: 61





	At The Seams

**Author's Note:**

> While discussing the dynamic between Missy and Clara in 9.01 and 9.02, a friend of mine observed, "the 'open wide' gets me every time because what was she expecting? Missy to shove some Dalek thing into her mouth/down her throat?"  
> I blame her entirely for this.

Clara Oswald is good with _strange._

Even before this - _any_ of this, before she’d started running off on her jollies with an alien once or twice a week - she had never been one to shrink in the face of chaos. She likes her life. Her life is _nice_ , nice like supermarket coffee and summer days where it’s just about warm enough to take your jumper off, and she loves her job and her family and her little house that she’s decorated exactly how _she_ wanted to - _“no, gran, I don’t think that’s too much to spend on a settee”_ \- but if somebody comes along and offers her a heatwave and a posh latte why would she ever say no? Who, in their right mind, would ever say no?

_Who, in their right mind, would ever be sitting where she’s sitting?_

The inside of the Dalek reminds her of one of those arcade racing games, with the pleather seats and the steering wheels, but as far as she can see there are no such controls here. She fumbles for armrests or handles and finds none. Instead she folds her hands awkwardly in her lap. Idly she wonders if maybe her gran was right, and this skirt _is_ a bit too short for work.

And then Missy’s boot is landing inside the Dalek casing, and Missy’s knee is brushing up against hers, and her sixty denier tights suddenly feel very sheer, and Clara thinks that she doesn’t own a skirt long enough for a day like today.

She wiggles in her seat, mostly for something to do, and looks around as if she hasn’t already inspected the casing half a dozen times in the last few seconds. With no warning or explanation Missy is attaching something, a pair of somethings, to her temples, pushing Clara’s hair back as she does, and Clara… Well. Clara is letting her.

It does, sort of, feel like she’s supposed to be resisting this, but Missy’s face is _very_ close to hers - close like an eye test, not close like a kiss, which, she thinks, is an important distinction - and with the back of her head resting against the not-arcade-game Dalek casing any movement beyond averting her eyes is only going to bring her closer. The electrodes feel sticky on her skin. She’s certain that they would stay there on their own, but Missy continues to hold them in place, and any attempt to knock her hands away would mean touching her, which is unthinkable, and all of a sudden it is also all that Clara can think _about_.

“How am I supposed to make it go? Are there pedals?” Her attempt to sound unimpressed, to rebuke the Time Lady currently invading her personal space with hands too gentle and perfume too pleasant to ignore, is remarkably effective. She’s satisfied to hear a note of utter petulance in her own voice. Missy takes no notice of it.

“Telepathic control,” she says, patience unruffled, and Clara thinks for a second that she would make an excellent teacher if she ever fancied a change from the murder and the mayhem, and then Missy is cocking her head and quirking her eyebrow and commanding without any undue roughness, “open wide,” and Clara is opening wide.

Missy blinks at her. Clara remembers a similar instruction from long ago, sitting in front of Strax in a kitchen on Paternoster Row, and in some small part of her mind that makes her remember thinking that the Doctor was gone and he was _never coming back, never going to come back for her, he’d forgotten all about her_ but mostly it makes her remember Jenny and Madame Vastra and the way that they kissed like the world would end if they didn’t, and _that_ makes her remember Danny for too brief a moment before she’s thinking about Madame Vastra’s soft Scottish burr and Jenny’s small human hands on her wife’s corseted waist and the image is rippling like the surface of a pond and now she is very, very much thinking about kissing Missy.

She is thinking so hard about _not_ thinking about kissing Missy that she doesn’t notice the hands falling free of her temples, she doesn’t notice them reaching for another wire from the tangle above her head, she doesn’t notice _anything_ until there is a hand under her jaw, lifting her chin, tilting her head back so that it gently bumps into the inside of the Dalek casing. Missy’s fingers are pressing down - not hard, just enough that the insides of Clara’s cheeks are forced against her molars, encouraging rather than restraining - and they are cooler than she expected, cooler than they’d felt against her temples. She tangles her fingers together in her lap, wringing her hands, just like she does when she’s at the dentist’s, and that’s what this feels like, really, except her dentist is not this beautiful or this terrifying and her dentist has never killed her boyfriend or tried to kill her or pushed her down a hole or thrown her against a wall or touched her face like this or pressed their knee between hers and this skirt is _too short, she can’t wear it to work again, gran was right, it’s too short._

“Keep still,” Missy tells her now, as if Clara will ever be able to move again. Something is resting against her tongue, not much thicker than a single finger, but it tastes rubbery and feels corrugated and she thinks it is a cable. It’s stiff, but flexible, and it is sliding down her tongue so slowly that it almost tickles. The sensation makes her lashes flutter. She wants to close her eyes - like she does when she’s at the dentist’s - but somehow it feels like that would be losing, admitting defeat, admitting discomfort, and so instead she looks straight ahead at Missy’s face, which is noticeably closer to hers than it had been.

She’s shifted her weight, leaning into the foot she has braced inside the Dalek casing, which explains the knee wedged between Clara’s. This new angle is higher, high enough that Missy is now looking _down_ at her, which sort of feels better and also, in many ways, feels worse. If she drops her eyes Clara will be able to see the slick black length of whatever is being pushed into her mouth, and once she’s thought about this she’s doing it, and once she’s done it the long overdue panic begins to set in as if she’s only just realised what’s happening.

Her hands fly apart, reaching for armrests that are not there, landing instead on the hydraulics that hold the casing open and gripping them hard enough to make her fingers cramp. There’s a startled noise opening her throat from below and then the cable is sliding deeper, finding ingress, nudging her exposed tonsils in a way that makes her retch so forcefully that her eyes fill with tears.

Missy shushes her.

“Don’t worry,” she says, and her voice is actually quite reassuring, but Clara looks up at her again with wide, wild eyes and there is a smile tugging at her lips. “Just breathe.”

Clara breathes.

The cable isn’t very thick; it doesn’t fill her throat, it doesn’t obstruct her airway. When she finds that she _can_ breathe, some of the horror ebbs away, and when Missy’s smile widens a little bit more goes with it, and when Missy nods in encouragement and murmurs, “there you go,” it disappears completely.

And then the cable is moving once more, inching further into her throat, and she gags again and she panics again and the hand around her jaw tightens as Missy urges, “ _relax,_ Clara,” and that is _not_ helping her relax at all. The knee between her knees is now a knee between her thighs, pressing inwards with the same inexorable slowness as the thing down her throat, forcing her legs wider until it feels decidedly immodest and she _knows_ that she would be flashing her knickers if it weren’t for the other body in the way. Her face is hot under Missy’s hand. She feels the first tear squeeze from the corner of her eye and trickle down her left temple, down past the electrode still stuck there, down into her hair where it stays.

“It’s _alright,_ dear,” Missy coos, and Clara finds that she much prefers Missy impassive and clinical and possibly trying to kill her to Missy gently maternal, her thumb sweeping across Clara’s cheek, her tone lilting sweetly like she actually cares about Clara’s comfort while she’s doing whatever _this_ is. “Keep still, now, there’s a good girl.”

She really, _really_ wants Missy to stop talking. The praise makes her feel small and patronised and utterly, miserably vulnerable, even more vulnerable than the crying she can’t stop and the knee between her thighs and the cable down her throat. She wants to snap back that she’s _fine,_ she wants to protest that she’s not frightened or hurt and she doesn’t need comforting, but all that she can manage is a strangled noise around the cable and then Missy is shushing her again.

“My Clara,” she murmurs, and she’s leaning further into the casing and the knee between Clara’s thighs is now very definitely a knee against the seam of Clara’s tights, and, _okay_ , maybe she is quite frightened and she is a little bit hurt but the comforting is only making it worse. She tries to remember that she is doing this for the _Doctor_ , because he needs her, because he’s alone and afraid and he thinks that she’s dead and gone and _never coming back, she’s never going to come back for him,_ but with Missy looking down at her like this, soothing her like this, it feels much more like she is doing this just because Missy wants her to. “Just a wee bit further, that’s it.”

As if on cue, she retches again, and now it’s _worse_. She can feel the cable reaching impossibly far down the back of her throat. When her breathing falters this time it refuses to steady itself and Clara, very frightened and very hurt, begins to _choke_.

The cable, however smooth or slick or thin it may be, is knife-sharp when her muscles convulse around it. The tears are coming thick and fast now, wetting the hair at her temples like sweat, blurring her eyes so that she has to blink furiously to see anything at all. She knows that she can breathe, she _can,_ she’s been _doing it,_ but between the pain in her throat and the very-much-not-pain where Missy’s knee is pressing through petticoat and skirt and tights and _unexpectedly damp_ knickers and squarely into her crotch, she seems to keep _forgetting._

“Calm down,” Missy says, half comfort and half command, but the cable is moving and the _knee_ is moving and now Clara is moving too, almost lifting herself from her seat with the strength of her grip on the hydraulics. She jerks under Missy’s hand, rocks her hips into Missy’s knee, tries to remember how to breathe and how _not_ to rut against the pressure between her legs and manages neither. Her throat burns and her chest burns and something low, low down in her belly _burns_ and she is not thinking about Danny, she is not thinking about the Doctor, she is not thinking about _anything_ save for the pain that is worsening and the definitely-not-pain that is worsening too.

She is not thinking about Missy. She is not thinking about the way Missy’s fingers press into her face or the way Missy’s knee drags against the seam of her tights or the way Missy’s lips twitch into a grin that looks very much like a snarl when Clara, for the first time in a long time, begins to grind herself to orgasm on another woman’s leg, and she is _not thinking_ about the faint hint of amusement in Missy’s voice when she leans that tiny bit closer and prompts, “s _wallow._ ”

Clara swallows; Clara comes; the pulsing of two sets of muscles blurs into a single wave of wet and cold relief.

Her throat relaxes, sore from its efforts but nonetheless uninjured. She hauls in a breath so deep it feels like it will never end. There is a thumb stroking across her cheek again, moving inwards, finding her bottom lip and dragging it down.

“There we are.” Missy is smiling down at her and, for reasons she cannot quite grasp, Clara smiles back. “That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?”

Unable to speak, or nod, or shake her head, she does not have to answer.

She thinks that this is probably for the best.


End file.
